Clubbed to Death (12 page)

‘Jim had a word with the Admiral, Robert. Sunil was right. It didn’t go too well yesterday. He said he got angry at the absolute resistance to any kind of moderate reform and at the dismissive way some of them spoke about poor old Trueman. Anyway, the upshot was that he demanded there be a committee meeting this Thursday to work out a club strategy.’

‘They won’t like that: it sounds ominous and modern and dangerous.’

‘Well, he did say he’d try to cool things down in advance of the meeting,’ said Pooley. ‘He’s intending to drop in and have a social drink with a few of them in the next day or so, have lunch or dinner, participate in old boys’ chat, that sort of thing.’

‘I wish him luck. It’s hard to be one of the boys when the boys unite only against a common enemy and at the moment that is oneself. Tell him to stay well away from the balustrade.’

Though Amiss was not entirely convinced that Trueman had been murdered, he did feel a sense of unease about the Admiral’s safety, so he was relieved to see that he seemed to be getting on rather better with his committee colleagues than the Sunday experiences had promised. He lunched amicably with Glastonbury and Chatterton, dined civilly with Fagg and Fishbane, and even had a seemingly friendly tête-à-tête with the Commander on Wednesday afternoon. Yet Amiss felt that to a group of paranoid old men the Admiral’s conduct must have appeared worrying. He refused three of the courses at lunch, four at dinner; he skipped the Madeira and champagne; his consumption of port was derisory. He tended to bow out when the other old codgers were getting stuck into tedious reminiscence, clearly lacking the high boredom threshold necessary to keep these dissidents happy.

Amiss wondered what a management consultant would do, faced with the Admiral’s problem. He had explained to Milton and Pooley that he had to carry the body of members with him. History suggested that
anciens régimes
tended to resist modernisation. The Admiral was going to have quite a job persuading even the ordinary bloated members to pay more, and to eat and drink less. None the less, Milton believed that he had a fair chance, if one believed that the English gentleman normally had some good in him, and that an appeal to decency and tradition could work. What was pretty clear was that Colonel Fagg would not be in the vanguard of modernisation.

‘Bloody fellow says he can’t manage fish and meat at the same meal,’ Amiss overheard him saying, as globules of congealed snuff quivered in his nostrils. ‘It’ll be austerity packages and spam fritters if we’re not careful.’

‘Never mind,’ he heard Fishbane offer, ‘we’ll sort him out tomorrow.’

The committee never got the chance to remonstrate with their persecutor. On Wednesday evening, the Admiral looked in on the club after dinner and Amiss heard him say goodnight to the five, remarking that he had a little work to do in the office, after which he would get back home and turn in: he looked forward to seeing them the following day.

Among the many fictions maintained in ffeatherstonehaugh’s was that committee members were busy men. Meetings therefore always took place at five-thirty in the evening, a time when a politician, a lawyer or a captain of industry might be expected to be able to get away from his office for an important private occasion. Gooseneck deputed Amiss that Thursday afternoon to provide refreshments. At five-fifteen he was to take tea and Dundee cake to the committee room. At six-thirty he would turn up with a large jug of the club cocktail, for it was a tradition that committee meetings ended with a toast to the club in its own tipple.

Punctually, Amiss descended the staircase with a laden tray: the Admiral was a hundred yards ahead of him. As Amiss entered the room the blast went off: he was flung across the room unconscious. The Admiral, who had unwittingly detonated the explosive, never had a chance.

13

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The call came first to the anti-terrorist squad, so it took an hour before Milton heard the news on the grapevine. By then the press had already been told that the likelihood was that this was a terrorist act: the media were already speculating on whether the perpetrators were Arab or Irish. While Milton explained the background and tried to wrest the case back to his jurisdiction, Pooley, who had gone with him to ffeatherstonehaugh’s, was white-faced with fear at Ramsbum’s gleeful account of the state of the two victims.

‘ ’Course the Admiral, ’e was a goner. His own mother wouldn’t have recognised him. Lost a fair bit of his ’ead.’

‘And the waiter? D’you know which one it was?’

‘Oh, yeah. It was young Robert. Can’t remember his second name, but he was an English chap.’

‘Was?’ Pooley was overwhelmed with horror. ‘But he’s still alive, isn’t he?’

‘Can’t see ’e’d be able to hang on. ’E was covered in blood. They couldn’t ’ave caught him in time. Must ’a lost gallons.’

Without another word Pooley tore into the club and found Milton. ‘I must speak to you, sir. It’s urgent.’

Milton apologised to the chief of the anti-terrorist squad and took Pooley into a corner.

‘Ramsbum says the injured waiter was Robert and that he’s in a serious condition.’ Pooley was gabbling.

‘I’ve just been told the same. Apparently there’s no word from the hospital yet.’

‘Can I go along there please, sir?’

‘No, I’m afraid you can’t. We’re taking over here now and you’ve got to stay. We can’t let personal feelings interfere with duty: you know that.’

Pooley straightened himself. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know that, sir.’

‘Good man, Ellis. Now here’s what I want you to do.’

The switching on of a harsh electric light woke Amiss at 6 a.m. He stayed immobile, trying desperately to identify where he was and to recall how he had got there. He raised his head slightly and took cautious stock. He was in an iron bed which resembled that on which he slept in ffeatherstonehaugh’s, but it had on one side a sad leatherette-and-wooden armchair and on the other a small white cabinet. Enclosing these three items were murky yellow-and-green curtains. There was a strong smell of disinfectant. He was wearing winceyette pyjamas like those he had had as a child. Enlightenment dawned: he was in hospital.

‘Morning, Bert,’ called a loud, high-pitched, trembling voice from his left.

‘Morning, Alf, ’ came the shouted response from opposite. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Oh, not too bad. Mustn’t grumble. Much better than the other night when my leg was so bad. I think that cup of tea last thing at night really helps. How about you?’

‘Pardon?’

Alf turned up the volume. ‘I said, how about you? How did you sleep?’

‘Oh, not bad. Mustn’t grumble, mustn’t grumble. Wonder what’s for breakfast this morning. Think it will be cornflakes or rice crispies?’

‘It’s Friday. Probably rice crispies. Don’t like them as much as cornflakes.’ Alf’s voice had dropped a decibel.

‘Don’t like what?’

‘I don’t like rice crispies as much as cornflakes,’ roared Alf.

‘Nor do I. Still, mustn’t grumble. And there might be strawberry jam today.’

‘Hope so.’

‘All right, Alf?’

‘All right, Bert.’

The conversationalists relapsed into silence, broken by intermittent spitting and coughing. Amiss stayed hidden in his enclosure, nervously examining his body for signs of damage. He could find only a small cut and bruise on the back of his head. Confused and agitated, he pressed the call button.

Three or four minutes later he heard a female with an Irish accent enquiring who wanted her: after a few cheery exchanges with the other inmates, she arrived at his pen. She pulled back the front curtain vigorously and revealed herself to be young and jolly-looking. ‘Hello there, I’m Bernadette. You’re Robert, aren’t you? And what can I do for you?’

‘Why am I here, Bernadette?’

‘Bit of an accident. Nothing serious. You’re grand now, thank God. Sister’ll tell you all about it in a minute.’

‘Can’t you?’

‘Sorry. Robert. Sister knows the details. Now don’t you worry your head. You’re in fine fettle.’

‘I can’t find my watch. What time is it?’

‘Ten past six.’

‘Christ.’

‘We have to get an early start in hospital, you know. ’ She began to draw the other curtains back. ‘No, no, please,’ squealed Amiss. ‘I want the curtains closed.’

‘Closed. Why?’

‘Because I want to be alone.’

‘What for, for heaven’s sake? Who do you think you are? Greta Garbo?’

From his period of employment in an Irish pub, Amiss was well accustomed to its denizens’ congenital gregariousness; this went hand in hand with a complete inability to understand anyone else’s need for peace. Unable to explain, he fell back on charm. ‘Oh, go on, Bernadette. Humour me.’ He spoke as flirtatiously as was humanly possible in his anxious state.

‘Oh, all right. Fair enough. If that’s what you want. Be seeing you.’ Shaking her head with mystification, she drew the curtains to.

After a few minutes they were half opened and a middle-aged woman came and sat on the chair by his bed. Her uniform was festooned with epaulettes, badges and stripes: Amiss wondered why a profession so given to the trappings of power stopped short of medals.

‘Good morning, Robert,’ she said. ‘You gave everyone quite a fright.’

‘What did I do?’

‘You got yourself involved in an explosion. Don’t you remember?’

‘I don’t remember anything except carrying a tray of tea and cake down a long corridor.’

She looked at him sympathetically: her crisp, rather school-mistressy manner gave way to something more gentle. ‘You’ve been very lucky. Some kind of bomb went off. I’m afraid it killed Sir Conrad Meredith-Lee.’

‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’ said Amiss. ‘The bastards got him.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Sorry.’ Amiss recollected where he was. ‘Pay no attention. I’m rambling. Was anyone else hurt?’

‘No. You’re the only other casualty.’

‘Well, I seem to be all in one piece, Nurse – sorry, Sister. What should I call you?’

‘Sister.’ Amiss speculated about why she felt entitled to call him by his first name. His conclusion that it was simply an old-fashioned recognition of his comparative youth was to be torpedoed a few minutes later when he heard her addressing his neighbour as Alf. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you are in one piece, but you have had slight concussion. Have you a headache?’

‘Just a mild throbbing – rather reminiscent of a hangover.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No.’

She looked at him and began to smile.

‘What’s the joke?’

‘Well, it does have its funny side,’ she said. ‘When you arrived in casualty last night you were covered with blood and they started hunting for the wounds and getting the blood transfusion supplies ready. But apart from a small cut on the back of your head you were fine. It wasn’t blood. It was red ink.’

‘Red ink?’

‘Red ink.’

Amiss closed his eyes tightly for a moment, as an aid to thought. ‘So the bomb must have gone off in the committee room. They have ink-wells on the table. Three of them. Three metal ink-wells for blue, black and red ink, respectively.’

‘Well, you were a lucky man to have got the ink and not the inkwells. But I can tell you it gave them all a good laugh in casualty when they discovered what had happened.’

‘Just as long as I can spread a little happiness at whatever cost to my dignity, I will not have lived in vain. Thank you, Sister. You’ve been most helpful. Now I’d like to leave, please.’

‘You can’t leave. ’ She appeared outraged. ‘You’ve got to wait for Doctor to come along and give you permission. You might be suffering from all sorts of delayed effects. Shock does funny things to people.’

‘Well, when is he coming round?’

‘He’ll be along by midday. Now you just lie here and enjoy the rest. I’ll pull back the curtains so you can have some company.’

‘I don’t want company, Sister.’

‘Now, now,’ she chided, ‘don’t be so miserable.’

‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Get me something to read and keep the curtains drawn.’

She stood up and looked at him unyieldingly. ‘Now, now, Robert, when you’re here you must do what you’re told. You shouldn’t be reading until Doctor’s seen you and you need company to take you out of yourself. We don’t want you brooding.’ She pulled back the curtains with a dramatic flourish. ‘Now sit up. ’ She shook his pillows and propped him against them. ‘Now you’re all comfy and ready for your breakfast.’

‘Bossy bitch,’ muttered Amiss under his breath as she turned to Alf. ‘This is Robert,’ she announced, ‘and, Robert, this is Alf. Now you’ll be able to have a nice chat.’ And with her hostessly duties completed, she strode triumphantly out of the room without a backward glance.

Alf pounced immediately. ‘That’s me all right – Alf Bundy. What are you in for then, young fellow?’

Amiss turned and looked at him. He was shrivelled, wispy-haired and had a pronounced squint. By now a connoisseur of age, Amiss placed Alf in his late seventies.

‘I had an accident,’ said Amiss grudgingly. ‘Nothing important. I ’ll be going shortly.’ Innate politeness drove him to add, ‘And you?’ He bitterly regretted the question as soon as it was out of his mouth.

Alf opened his monologue inauspiciously. ‘Oh, I couldn’t begin to tell you all that’s wrong with me.’ He shook his head, but gamely decided to make a stab at it. ‘What I suffer from most are my bowels. I’m a martyr to my bowels. I’ve been in and out, and in and out, and in and out and had all those tests and can they tell me what’s wrong? They can not. Do my bowels get any better? They do not. And as if that wasn’t enough…’

He didn’t stop until breakfast arrived at seven. Amiss directed ferocious attention towards his tray, giving a spirited impression of a man who couldn’t eat and listen at the same time. He hacked his way through his cereal – Alf had been right – or had it been Bert? It was indeed rice crispies, a substance for which Amiss had always felt a dislike verging on contempt. His hunger was however strong enough to get him through that, along with the slice of ersatz brown bread.